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If Rio Vidal had been the one to construct this box, marking it as such, she can imagine what she would have put within it. Loose grave dirt, a handful of baby teeth, fond carrion finds within the forest all were potential gifts to be sent abroad. Thin, long fingers dig into the soft edges of the cardboard, chipped black nails scratching along the spaces glued shut.
She is not one to receive or send mail, not regularly at the very least. She had, as a teenager, found an advertisement for seasonal seeds sent directly to her (Lilia’s) door. Boxes of pristine packets of those promised only for a season and then pressed packets of perennials as a gift to grow more and beyond. Everything with a small note, a story of how to grow, how to add them to your garden. All typed identical repeating phrases, no one on the other end that cared for her, but she could pretend. As if she needed them, as if they needed her. And yet, her palms overflowed with seeds in colourful paper packaging.
At best, what she got yearly were bodies, laid delicately in graves, loose dirt upon them that she places with her own shovels and hands. And from them she grew gardens.
But boxes marked with her name, deliberately sent?
To and from, Rio Vidal. Serendipitous to find each other in a universe so vast, to share that name. Sometimes the repetition is a mark off balance, a doppelganger waiting in the shadows, wanting to claim the name all alone. Spirits and things cruel enough to play pretend.
Nails mark and press into the groove of overdone and overpacked tape. For the delicate spider’s spin of the inking made on the names, the packaging was haphazard, as if to contain some great beast or critter with teeth and claws that would burst out. Rio certainly hopes it does, it will.
Tape gives way to the nail of her thumb, aches and splits. Unceremonious, Rio presses fingertips and digs in, beyond the tape and pulls. And pulls again. A thud within, and then the tape gives the ghost and breaks along the seams, box flaps falling open.
Dark watery, glittering eyes stare up.
What manner of spirit is this?
Pale beast shaped in the sense of a person, a walking poppet perhaps; though, its skin looks more akin to flesh than burlap or clay.
It stands with arms out, staring eternally without a proper sound. Beside its nubs for feet, a paper sits, and in beautiful calligraphy one word reads: please.
“Hello, you,” hand outstretched, Rio touches fingertip to nub, feeling the strange skin, and watching the beast as it continues to stare. Endless night on a vastness of the ocean, the moon and stars wobbling on the surface.
It scuttles with sudden movement, grasping and grabbing hold of fingertip to crawl up into palm, settling there.
Commentary comes out of leftfield, as is so often the case where Agatha Harkness is concerned, “What the fuck is that?”
“What becomes of wisdom teeth,” grin that borders on too far for her cheeks, Rio widens her eyes and turns towards her housemate.
Blue eyes wander over the strange near star-shaped spirit that turns its endless gaze now to her, and Agatha shakes her head. “It’s not living here. Something like that looks small, but it will eat us out of house and home, and I already have to put up with feeding you.”
The pots and the pans speak of Rio’s time in the kitchen, and the knives know the grip of her fingers as she leads them in cutting all manner of plant, fungi, and meat to make meals for the both of them. Still, she merely smiles at Agatha’s dramatics.
“I am taking it to Lilia’s.”
“Hn. Give the old bird my regards, I’ve got a new grimoire in, and this won’t read itself,” reaching past Rio, Agatha grabs a paper-wrapped rectangle out of the mail, and wiggling it for good measure. One last glance is given to the strange mailed spirit, a shake of her head, and Agatha heads out of the room.
Rio and the delivered creature left to their own devices. Considering the strange firm thing, Rio shoves her tongue against her teeth and then into the softness of her gums.
Broom by day simply isn’t something they can safely partake in, as much as Rio wants to grab hers and take off. (She imagines the little spirit accidentally caught on a breeze and flying off.)
The sky is a blown out sort of blue, cloudless and cool. The remnants of winter are melting off and running little rivers down the street into the drainage gates.
If not a broom, than a bicycle is close enough, pulled from the shed. Spiders are removed, led back into the shadows of the shed, not yet warm enough to drop them into the grass, given to nature and freedom.
Lilia will scoff when she sees her without a helmet, but if gravity wanted a hug, and her head bounced from the concrete, what difference would it make? A few flowers would grow there, and the bone would return. No long term damage done.
“In you go,” delicate hands settle the strange spirit into the basket, as if it were a fond old friend of a stuffed animal about to go off on an adventure. Dark continues its wavering, watery stare, straight ahead.
Across Westwytch on spring puddled sidewalks, white painted lines, and past the Kale Clinic and Coral Shore Tattoo Parlor, Rio pedals. In the basket, the spirit leans out, hair floating with the breeze, and the little bell on its neck chiming oh so delicately with the rounding of corners and bumps of curbs.
The old Victorian sits back on the property, cobblestone walkway and shrubbery waking up into the season. The old maple at the front is near in full flower, ready to drop seeds, an early-riser.
Scooping the creature from its place in the basket, Rio cradles it against her chest before heading up familiar steps.
Two steps into the floral wallpapered, knickknack cluttered abode of the woman who raised her, and Rio hears the divination witch before she sees her approach. (Lilia, on the other hand, does not need to see Rio before speaking, already knowing what she will see.)
“Where’s your jacket? That sweater is threadbare, Rio,” Lilia pauses, warm brown eyes roaming over the creature resting upon Rio’s crossed forearms. “And who is that? A replacement roommate for Harkness?”
Rio goes to open her mouth, but Lilia continues, “Tea, and then something to eat proper. Caponata, I think will do. I have some I made up yesterday. And a mitten… For that spirit to wear on the way back, you have to work on your manners still, Rio. Come in, come in.”
“Hi, Lilia~” Singsong voice, Rio prances on bare feet, toenails desperately in need of a fresh coat of paint.
The flow of fabrics stop, Lilia turning on her heel to look down, brow lifted before shaking her head, turning back on her march into the kitchen.
Following behind, a dance in her step, Rio squeezes the spirit to her chest before look for where to set it. A chair seems too low for it to properly enjoy tea, and so the edge of the table is decided upon with a hum. Settling it into place, she watches as it wobbles before returning to its state of near motionlessness, staring, staring.
“I see she didn’t join you; how is Agatha?”
“Thinking of joining a nunnery,” Rio smiles absently as she watches her maternal figure mill about the room, kettle on the stovetop (she looks away so it will boil).
“Is that so?”
“Mhmm,” nodding Rio adjusts her vision back to the spirit who is so still, no pleasant jingling of its bell. “Higher calling.”
Lilia’s huffs as she shakes her head, curls bouncing, “I am certain all of those women would be.”
Prodding the spirit slightly with her fingertip, Rio cannot help the gap in her teeth that shows with her smile at the chime of the bell as it sways, unbalanced. It takes a moment before it stabilizes once more on little nubby appendages.
“Rio. Hospitality, I taught you better.”
Pulling her hands back, Rio waits for the saucers and cups painted with pops of bright sunshine yellow lemons and delicate blue flourishes (Lilia’s favourites). Seconds feel like minutes sometimes, and other times hours, but waiting for the kettle always reminds her of centuries.
The whistle of the kettle comes when eyes are not upon it. Kettle to pot the water is exchanged and strainer set to sink within the heated waves. It does not take long after that before the smoky scent of Lilia’s preferred tea to waft.
“This will keep us while I set the caponata up to reheat. Have you begun to tend to the new garden, to prepare it? I hardly imagine the Boehner family was taking much care of it.” Lilia throws open the fridge to gather an oversized container of the stew. “I will be sending you home with some for Agatha. I hardly see that girl eat anything if it is not fried or sweet.”
A cup is settled before the spirit, its reflection shimmering back in the leaf-darkened water. Dark eyes glimmer back, just like the tea.
Conversation flows as the tea still steams. Topics of gardens and gnomes, painting to be done and uprooting to consider, to the graveyard and grove, roles kept and played, and then onto Lilia’s own life, her shop and anything interesting divined of late. The latter leaves Rio’s maternal figure scoffing and rolling her eyes. It had not warned her of Harkness showing up and setting up shop next door a year ago, what good was it?
Rio’s lips curve as she shakes her head. Eyes catch the creature, still watching its own reflection in the now cooling liquid. The room smells heady now of eggplant and tomatoes, sharp with a distinct vinegar tang cutting through it all. The spirit too even wobbles as if scenting the air with some nose that it seemingly lacks.
Bowls are mismatched, and cutlery too, gathered haphazardly over the years. Rio’s preferred spoon has beautiful flowers curving and adorning the top, she cannot help herself as the thought passes of how pretty they are. The vivid red of the tomatoes stands out as it is scooped into the blue lined dish before Rio. Eggplant chunks piled high.
Bread of course is brought to the table, crusty and Rio thinks perhaps made by Sharon. The village’s every hat she can play (including witch) still always managed to find time to bake and care for her garden. The fact she had kept on Agatha enough over the costs of her house is the only reason Rio lived with her now.
Agatha would snort and call her a busybody.
The final bowl is set in front of the spirit, pink bell flowers and winding vines along the lip of it. Tea sits beside it, untasted, but hospitality must be followed.
“Noemi and Jen are coming over this week for dinner. I would invite you and Agatha to join us, but,” Lilia trails off.
Rio lifts her brows with a widening of her eyes, “Still trying to get the burn marks out of your favourite tablecloth?”
“For a potions witch, Jen has proper fire to her. She’s grown into a strong witch, you both have.”
The compliment falls flat as Rio’s eyes move across the table to land on an empty bowl. A single chunk of eggplant clings to the spirit’s head. Tomato sauce stands out on the pallour of its face.
“Huh.”
“Well, I’ll be. I appreciate you enjoying my cooking, my dear. I would suggest you take some back for it, but I get the feeling it does not belong here too much longer.” Lilia leans back as she assesses the clean bowl and the messy spirit. “Let me get a towel and that mitten, it must be cold riding too and fro, even if you are not, Rio. You can still lose a toe, need I remind you. You-“
“Should wear shoes bicycling, and a helmet too!”
“You didn’t wear a helmet?” Turning sharply, Lilia throws up her hands, shaking her head. “I did not hear that…”
Words tapper off as the divination witch disappears into the hall, and into the coat closet, searching for the spoken of goods.
Wiping off the sauce with the back of her finger, Rio ascertains the spirit once more before turning as Lilia re-enters the room. Mitten in hand, and towel to clean off the stray eggplant.
Tucked into the yarn, and back into the basket, Rio throws her legs back over her bike, skirt loose enough to only hike a little as she balances on the seat. Lilia stands on the porch, sighing loudly enough for her to hear (over the feet or perhaps her head, or maybe over some other worry she had managed to settle upon in the minutes since leaving the table and house).
Hand lifted, Rio wiggles her fingers as she takes off down the winding walkway, back to the sidewalks and street. Crossing town as the creature balances atop the Tupperware of food for Agatha, staring straight ahead into the sun as they ride back home.
Agatha is settled in the living room when Rio walks in, spirit resting against her chest. “It’s wearing a mitten? What’s that, Lilia sent you home with some food? She afraid I’m not feeding you?”
“She knows you’re not,” setting the box down, Rio grins with all of her teeth before plucking back up the creature. “Or yourself.”
“I had a bag of chips for—“ Agatha pauses. “Snack. Anywhoo, that thing is not staying here. I don’t know what it is, leech, bloodsucker, horrifying reality that there are more of you than just the one I see when you pass by the mirror, but it is weird as hell.”
“We’re keeping it then.”
“Rio.”
“Agatha.”
“I got you a box, send it back.”
As if moved by Agatha’s call, and not the reality she had already prepared to return to sender, Rio rolls her eyes exaggeratedly, “If I must.”
“Get it done so you can take it to the postal box, Agnes of Westview has a new episode tonight,” sauntering over, Agatha looks at the creature one last time before grabbing the caponata. “Right. See you never again weird flesh poppet, whatever you are.”
Gathering the box Agatha had left on the table beside abandoned, over-taped one, Rio breathes out as she plucks back up the mitten’ed spirit. Holding it in the air before her face, she stares into those watery vacant eyes one last time before settling it down in for a cardboard nap. Holes punched in the top, she tapes up the box to return it to the mail, to another Rio in another story.